Chapter 21: The Question

By February I was having Sunday lunch at Margaret's every week, and her son was never there.

I noticed it the third time.

His coat was never on the peg, and his chair was always pushed in.

"Where does he go?" I asked her, at the sink, drying a plate.

"Out," Margaret said.

"Every Sunday?"

"He leaves at noon and comes back at four.

"You said you didn't want to meet him on my stairs." She rinsed a glass. "He does not argue with your terms."

I put the plate down.

At four, I put on my coat and went out of her front door.

I looked down the length of the road.

A grey car was parked at the far end, under the bare plane tree.

Alistair sat in the driver's seat with a folded newspaper on the wheel.

He had been there for hours, because the windows had misted over from the inside.

He saw me.

He didn't get out, and he didn't wave.

He only raised one hand, flat, to say he was keeping to the terms.

Then he started the engine and drove the other way.

I stood on the pavement until Margaret came to the door.

"I told him to stop," she said. "He says it's the one thing he has that costs him anything."

"That's a speech."

"It is not. He said it to the steering wheel, and I overheard."

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